


it should sound unnatural

by Shipperwolf



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Also Jon-centric as fuck, F/M, Ficlet, Jon Targaryen kind of does it for me, Speculative as fuck, there be dragons and ice zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 17:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7517209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shipperwolf/pseuds/Shipperwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jon loses his cool, and directs the past into the present. As any prince of prophecy should, yes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	it should sound unnatural

**Author's Note:**

> (Based on the events of S6 and sprinkled with far too much hopeful speculation.
> 
> General Disclaimers apply.)

But it doesn’t.

 _Dracarys_ , she says, a ferocity in her voice that seems to billow forth from her beasts’ maws.

He does not question the heat that seems to pool into his blood at the sight: the wight walkers engulfed in a storm of flames; their dry, dead bodies catching like tinder, the smell of them worse than those of the fresh decomposing corpses piled high after the battle for Winterfell.

_Dracarys._

Valyrian. Not a language he’s well-studied in, though not for the wight walkers beyond the wall perhaps he could have learned alongside Sam.

(Aemon Targaryen. Bless the old man; he had bloodkin nearby for a short time, and never knew it.)

_Dracarys!_

Smoke fills his lungs. So much heat, he thinks, and yet his skin feels bone-chilled. Too many. Too many to burn. Too many to fight. All around him, dead eyes setting the hairs on his arms upright.

The sweat on his neck chips off, solid, as the winds of the Northern winter blow in indifference to the living.

“Burn them!” he hears himself shout. “Burn them all!”

A shift in the air stills him for a moment before he repeats the order-- _request_ , as he has already pledged fealty to the Targaryen queen despite knowing so little about her--the woman’s head jerks sharply to look down at him from the winged shadow she calls Drogon.

He doesn’t need to meet her eyes to know what she’s thinking, but neither does it deter him.

 _Dracarys_ , she says again, louder over his own furious shouting. His throat burns, raw and touched by ash.

And when did he become so angry? So passionate? Had he time to ponder it, would he blame the inevitable mindless violence of battle? A desperation to protect his home, his family? Or something dormant and quiet now awakened within his own blood?

The green brother of Daenerys’ mount flies overhead, the shadow he creates chilling the air further for but a moment. Rhaegal, he’s called.

Jon follows the dragon’s line of sight; a faraway figure watches them from the edge of the slaughter, blue eyes bright and glowing against the grey winter horizon.

His voice cracks, swallowed by the howling winds and screaming men alike. Rhaegar’s namesake hears it all the same and responds with a blazing roar.

_Dracarys._


End file.
